


Fortune doesn't walk with the bold.

by LadySpearWife



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dagor Bragollach, Emotional Hurt, Father-Son Relationship, Fights, First Age, Gen, Gondolin, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Helcaraxë, How Do I Tag, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Parent-Child Relationship, Politics, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13663065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySpearWife/pseuds/LadySpearWife
Summary: Findecáno dismissed his nobles trying to ignore his brother’s distant and emotionless politiness in his letter, trying to ignore that he was now king of ruined people and ashes.Trying to ignore that his father was dead.





	Fortune doesn't walk with the bold.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah fingon angst, happens after fingolfin died  
> findecáno = fingon  
> turucáno = turgon  
> aracáno = argon  
> nolofinwë = fingolfin  
> írissë = aredhel  
> ondolindë = goldolin  
> fëanáro = fëanor  
> arafinwë = finarfin  
> review:  
> itarillë = idril  
> maeglin is maeglin because lómion, aredhel's name, was a secret and i don't think fingon would know it  
> i fucked up with the timeline. aredhel is already dead when fingolfin dies.

_“Father, what can we do?! We have almost no food, no water, and no medicine to give the refugees! And they keep coming, thousands at each new day!” Findecáno shouted, his face flushed with a burning anger and his outfits miserably disarrayed._

_Why couldn’t his father see that they didn’t have the means to welcome more hungry mouths? Everyone knew it was impossible to get any supplies with almost every other kingdom or land under attack – probably even the migrants themselves knew about it – and yet Nolofinwë insisted in finding a solution that didn’t exist! In addition, the members of the council were losing their minds trying to please their king for nothing!_

_“What should we do, then? Put soldiers on the borders and kill those who attempt to cross it? Close our eyes to the people and let them die, thousand at each new day?” His father sounded disdainfully and unsympathetically sharp, with face as grim as a snow storm. Besides that, however, he couldn’t fathom the smallest emotion there, struggling to find any familiar trait in his sire. It was terrible, the inability to reach out for their closeness, terrible and merciless, “our major duty is taking care of them, son, no matter how difficult it’s.”_

_Findecáno opened his mouth to keep debating, but Nolofinwë sighed and raised a laconic hand, suddenly looking ancient and strained. He understood the gesture and went away, though not missing the opportunity to shoot a furious, unforgiving glare at the imponent, exhausted man._

_He’d like to never see his father again._

Three deep breaths later and the messenger, eerily stern and fatigued, was still here, waiting patiently for an answer from the king. For an answer to his brother who received their father’s corpse from the Eagles of Manwë themselves.

The realization hit like a hammer, breaking his ribs until they smashed his heart, leaving his vision blurry and his head dizzy. Took Findecáno a long moment to wash all the sadness from his blank face and carefully lock a scream behind his teeth. A Crown Prince was forbidden to cry, no matter how silently, that he learnt well during the Helcaraxë, but what could anyone say of a High King? Weakness shouldn’t even be a memory for one leading, and he was a leader now.

“Your service is greatly appreciated in such perilous times,” Findecáno began, fighting to keep his voice flat and imposing, “and you may rest before returning to Ondolindë with my news to King Turucáno.”

The messenger bowed ad went way; to do what, he couldn’t even imagine. His mind was filled by the news, the thoughts so loud that the court, finally silent, might have heard the slightly morbid deliberations if his father’s face, blue because the suffocation from the Enemy’s feet, matched his silver armor. It suddenly was too much, everything cold and drowning him in black water; Findecáno dismissed his nobles trying to ignore his brother’s distant and emotionless politeness in his letter, trying to ignore that he was now king of ruined people and ashes.

Trying to ignore that father was dead.

So slowly, so terribly and cruelly slowly, they all went away until he was alone in the great, oppressing room, sitting on a great, oppressing throne. The late, unforgiving realization – it was a day for such late realizations, as sharp as swords and twice as merciless – that this was Nolofinwë’s seat made him shriek and shiver, lethargically getting up, afraid that his legs would just give up and stop working.  _My rooms_ , he thought, just a nerve away from utter despair,  _must get to my rooms_.

Findecáno didn’t run because members of nobility, especially one who possessed kingship, mustn’t be so careless. It was an easy lesson to learn, and now, however, he wished no one needed it: the corridors felt miles long, endless mazes of cold stone designed especially for torture. Even worse: every servant or highborn wanted to give him their condolences and there wasn’t a thing to be done save for smiling – how could a son smile after a father’s death? How? – and being gentle, being polite.

At his rooms’ doors, Findecáno fathomed that soon this place would be empty and gathering dust. The High King’s chambers were his now, better protected and far more private as they were. Or course Nolofinwë’s belongings must be organized first and it was absurd that anyone but him would do this. Nevertheless, with all the new duties, going through personal items, letters, clothes, and such would take time, a long amount of precious time and even more of mad effort.

He should be writing correspondences or making miracles with the provisions or watching the soldiers – shortened, taking care of the people whose fear only grew; chaos was always worse after all –, not letting his body shake with violent sobs that steal all the air from his lungs and wailing like a boy who could afford such luxuries. Findecáno wanted his parent back, wanted his dead brother and dead sister back, wanted his other living sibling back, wanted his old life back; while weeping, moaning and with waterfalls of tears falling through his face, he could only think of a peace so distant it might be a lie.

Nolofinwë never knew how to deal with defeat like a normal person, never backed down and took a moment to breathe and let his head cool little. They all talked about uncle Fëanáro a lot, mad uncle Fëanáro whose life and death were flames and ashes, but all grandfather’s children were blazing and destructive, from beautiful aunt Findis and her fits of emotion that scared all the house to dear uncle Arafinwë whose smiles often resembled blades covered by blood. Findecáno was sure that, if all the family shared a trait, it was the obstinacy and the fact that, if it didn’t end in tragedy, it wasn’t over yet.

With his body trashing on the hard floor, voice raw from what could be hours or seconds of miserable pleas and head spinning, he was no more than a boy terrified and desperate, trying, without any success, to stop crying. The whole world slipped through his trembling, faltering fingers, and shattered in brief moments of another’s glory. It didn’t taste like victory or at least satisfaction – for the news were proud in saying that the High King harmed the Enemy eight times –, just ashes and rust.

His nails were digging into the wood in desperate attempt of stabilization, he was fighting against the sobs to breathe even a little and his mind was an eternal circle of  _didn’t you think about us all, father? About Turucáno, Itarillë, Maeglin and I? Was it so hard to forget your grief-stricken fury and consider that you had a family already broken?_ But the anger mixed the lament was of no use: Nolofinwë was as dead as Aracáno or Írissë, his little siblings who struggled and gasped and agonized for hours until death finally came. Or so say the tales.

The faces kept mingling; sometimes, it was father dead on the accused beach, red and dark blood mixed on the sands with the sound of the ocean like a lullaby; sometimes it was his younger brother and yonger sister madly charging against the Thangorodrim, expressions horrifyingly twisted by fury and doom heavy on their shoulders. All the three whispered  _failure_ and Findecáno screamed, and screamed, and screamed an apology.

_He never saw his father again._


End file.
